


Graveyard Dancing

by Rucksack (wingblade)



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Death, Gore, Horror, M/M, Modern Era, Portland Oregon, Sexual Content, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingblade/pseuds/Rucksack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanitas dreams of leaving and taking his not-quite-boyfriend, Ven, along for the ride with him. But the price they'll both have to pay for freedom might not be exactly what they expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. locusts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [precious meme "got it memeorized" des dark-meme-rescue](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=precious+meme+%22got+it+memeorized%22+des+dark-meme-rescue).



> For [Des](http://dark-rescue.tumblr.com/), muse and editor extraordinaire. Seriously. This story wouldn't exist without them. I've found a morbid sense of home in this fic. Thank you so much. Really. 
> 
> If all goes according to plan, this story will be updated on the twenty-first of every month, in honor of Vanven Day last month! I was supposed to post this then, but my computer died. Oops. The number of chapters are tentative (~twenty) and just really a minimum goal I'd like to work towards.
> 
> tl;dr the tags — this is a pretty horrific story. I may have over-tagged but I would rather do that than under-tag. The underage sex is the tamest lime you might ever read. The rating might go up, though. The rating might already need to be upped and I don't know, but we'll see!
> 
> The title — and the theme of the story in general — is inspired by D.R.U.G.S.' "Graveyard Dancing."

On December twenty-first, Vanitas obtains his long-coveted license to drive. It's his eighteenth birthday, and he's technically a free man. For as long as he can remember, the desire to leave has burned within him; miles and miles of road stretched before him — and, when he dreams, it is neverending — as he speeds along in his big, red truck. With his foster father, Xehanort, being the wealthiest man in the town, he can have any car he wants. But Vanitas chooses the vehicle he has dreamt of all these years: an old truck the color of dried blood. Vanitas even worked at an indie record store downtown over the seasonal rush to be able to purchase it himself. Is his father proud? In his own way, maybe he is, but he would never say it out loud. Xehanort knows of his foster son’s dreams, and he silently approves.

Rolling to a stop at the end of the long, twisting driveway unique to Master Xehanort’s estate, Vanitas slams the door of his newly-acquired vehicle. On his way up to the house, he nods in admiration to the pink-haired gardener; a new addition to the many people his father employs, but he has already proven he’s up to the task of pleasing Master Xehanort. The front lawn’s rose bushes are to be neatly trimmed in the shape of a curvy “X,” while the backyard is groomed into a heart formation. It is strange and eclectic, just like his father, and the new worker has been keeping up well. It was a shame their last gardener disappeared so suddenly; he had been a large, muscular man, and so gentle and appreciative of the earth. So tragic.

Throughout his life thus far, Vanitas has always been watched. It’s a fact his foster father scarcely lets him forget. The eyes are not caring, but neither are they judgemental; they are all-knowing. Often when Xehanort is home before his son, he will watch Vanitas come home through the large window of his room, his glowing eyes nearly pressed to the glass. It is a reminder that his father knows: he knows the alcohol Vanitas has consumed, the smoke he’s inhaled, and the boy he’s kissed. Vanitas doesn’t need to be reminded, though; how could he forget?

Today, he is spared the dramatic greeting. The house is silent upon his arrival, and yet the feeling of being watched never recedes. Could his father have hidden cameras scattered across the house? Perhaps, but maybe Xehanort’s uncanny ability to keep tabs on everything — and everyone — is a little more subtle in execution. Vanitas peels the curtains away from the front room’s window. Outside, the sky is drab and gray, with the gardener nowhere in sight.

Never one to linger downstairs too long, he grabs a bag of chips and a glass of juice from the kitchen before heading up to his room. Despite the quick detour, he can’t avoid the lingering eyes: paintings hung all across the walls, depicting various figures. Some have dark skin, some have light, and then some have no skin. What each have in common is the deep yellow of their eyes. It’s the same gold as Xehanort’s and Vanitas’ own. There are more “X” shapes scattered around the house, too; at least one in each room. They are portals to a world Vanitas will never quite understand.

Sprawling out on his bed, the teenager turns on his cell phone to glance over his new text messages and laugh at the missed calls. There are nearly a dozen of each, all with the same contact name glaring out to him in the darkened room: _Ven-ven_. As he recalls fondly, they had been wrapped up in each other on Ven’s couch, kissing gently. Ven is the only person to have ever made him want to be soft or careful with anyone, while also fueling the raging passion within. But then something happened, and Vanitas left to take his test and pick up his car alone. The night before, Vanitas had dreamt of doing those things with Ven, like he planned. What had happened to make him so mad? It’s a blur of black and yellow, light and dark, but then the black is replaced with a sickly brown. He is a spectator, remembering these events unfold; there is nothing he can do but watch.

After throwing his phone across the floor, he lies on his side and watches it until its light fades and flickers off. The relief he feels is oxygen to his lungs. Ven is worried, sad, and possibly alone, but Vanitas calmly eats his food and crosses his legs over his bed. The two have kissed, but they’re not dating. There should be no sense of obligation or commitment, and yet there is. Vanitas hasn’t even touched anyone else since he and Ven began their awkward courting.

Ven never lets him forget his love. It’s the exact opposite of everything he has ever known. He can’t see Ven now — or hear him, or read his words — because the hurt rolling off of him in waves would break everything he has spent so long to build. Ven is innocence; he can’t know, at least not yet.

It’s after midnight when Xehanort returns home. The only sounds alerting him to the arrival of his foster parent are the faint echoes of a scream. Where could this one have come from? Sometimes it’s fun to guess.

Ven has seen the bruises and scratches; the burnt and torn skin. It’s infrequent enough for Vanitas to brush it aside, but Ven actually thinks his father is hurting him. It isn’t entirely incorrect, but neither is it wholly true. It is not pain or pleasure; it is a service. Ven could never understand his dedication. 

Creeping downstairs to wash his dishes, he does so quietly, placing them in the dishwasher once he’s finished. Palms resting on the counter, he waits. Before long, another scream pierces the air, and being so far away, it’s almost merciful, for on this night, it is not his own. Having received all of the summons he needs — his father wouldn’t have let such a sound escape if he hadn’t anticipated the company of his son — Vanitas makes his way down to the basement, and further still through the large doors within. It’s open, but only slightly, so that he may be coaxed inside. In the room, his father’s glowing eyes look down at him. In his hands are sharp carving tools, and up above him, hanging on the wall, is their pink-haired gardener. Xehanort turns to instruct Vanitas to shut the door, but there is no need; the black-haired teen is already closing the door, his eyes never leaving those of their high-strung gardener. And he had been doing so well, too. It won’t be easy to find another worker with the dedication this man had.

Xehanort watches Vanitas curiously, finding the man’s lack of emotion intriguing. He’s trained him well. As he begins to clean the bloody instruments in his hands, Vanitas peers at their captive closer: his eyes are wet with fear, but most unfortunately for him, they are blue. Blue is Xehanort’s favorite color; this must be why he caved so quickly. Vanitas merely observes as they are plucked from their sockets and placed in his proffered hands. His ears are ringing from the shrieks and cries, and when he looks down at the eyes in his hands, they seem to have already lost the special glow his father craves to preserve. Xehanort will be displeased.

Quickly finishing his task, Vanitas puts them in one of his father’s peculiar containers full of preserving fluid. After he places them on the shelf against the far wall, he steps back, looking at each of the jars he has personally filled throughout the years.

Ven has blue eyes, too, but his are different. They are full of life and bright with a light that transcends darkness. When his father excuses him for bed, and the blood from his hands is spiraling down the drain as he showers, he thinks of those eyes.


	2. sun

Ventus dreamt of spending the day with his lover as well, and despite all past experience, he foresaw it to be a good day. A good day with Vanitas was one in which they could cocoon themselves, enveloped in their own little world. Things always turned sour when someone poked their head in, as if breaking Vanitas out of a trance he didn’t know he was in. More than anything, Ven truly believes Vanitas is a good person; misunderstood, even to himself, but if he were so bad, Ven doesn’t think he’d be able to feel this way about the other teenager. Maybe Vanitas yells a lot — almost as much as he swears — but it’s never been directed at Ven. He’s just angry, and with the way he’s been treated by his caregiver while growing up, Ven can see why. But the way Vanitas treats Ven is unlike the way he treats others. It’s thoughtful; the way he teases Ven and kisses him, so full of rage, yet cautious and calculating.

What interrupted them today was Ven’s foster brother coming home. Ven had begged his brother to let him have the house to himself for a friend’s birthday — his siblings didn’t technically live with him anymore, but their father didn’t like Ven being alone — and eventually, his brother relented. With their father at work and sister at a neighbor’s babysitting, who could possibly interrupt them? It all seemed to be working in Ven’s favor. But then his brother, Terra, had come home to pick up something he forgot, and he realized that by “friend,” Ven had meant “that kid everyone hates who has been banned from both the house and seeing Ventus.” An argument ensued, but mainly it was Terra insulting Vanitas — calling him the scum of the earth, recommending he drop dead before touching his baby brother again — and in turn, Vanitas laughed. His laugh was deep and mocking; his trademark. But from the heat pouring from his body, Ven could tell how mad he was. Then Vanitas had left, and all that remained was the lingering warmth from when their lips had met.

* * *

Terra turned to Ven, huffing and ready to scold, but he saw those blue eyes full of tears. When he calmed down enough to allow him closer, Terra held him, for neither could stay mad at each other long. Family is family. Vanitas is bad news; why can’t his little brother see this?

Now, with his eyes dry and Terra watching TV in the living room — having decided to stay to watch over him — Ven starts to clear the dining table. He really had all this planned out, from Vanitas’ favorite foods to the way he wanted to touch him later in the evening. Maybe he could have finally proved how much he cared about Vanitas, and maybe he could have loved him back. Ven sighs, wiping his eyes as he sinks to the floor, listening to the low volume of the television as the coolness of the linoleum soothes him. It feels so nice against his forehead, especially; he’s used to headaches after crying, but he can’t remember the last time he cried this much.

He would sleep here, too, if Terra hadn’t come in to check on him. Scooping up his drowsy brother from the floor, he carries him to bed and tucks him in. Terra stays to check his temperature, then leaves the room, and Ven can hear the click of the TV as it’s turned off. His brother returns with a cool cloth for his head, then lies on his own bed — despite having moved out, his bed remains for sleepovers — on the opposite side of the room.

There are too many words unspoken between them. Terra can’t apologize, because he knows he’s right about Vanitas, and apologizing would mean he was wrong, wouldn’t it? But he’s sorry for making Ven cry; so sorry that it makes his chest ache. In a perfect world, Ven would never cry, but a perfect world wouldn’t have the yellow-eyed man who happens to be so fond of his brother, either. 

Pulling back his blanket, Terra calls out to his brother: “Ven.” His voice is tender, but leaves no room for dispute. Ven doesn’t even grumble as he shuffles across the room, but neither is he excited, like he usually is on these nights. Terra looks past this for now, patting the space next to him on the bed. He pulls the covers up over them as Ven joins him. The older man has always told his brother bedtime stories; not every night, of course, but frequently enough. When Ven was younger, he loved classic fairytales, and while Ven’s imagination is still full of wonder, now Terra tries to embellish their own lives with exaggerated fiction.

Tonight he begins with, “There was once a mean, old witch who loved the feel of sparks between her fingertips,” who is really his strict chemistry teacher. Ven is quiet at first, but once the story unfolds to reveal that the beautiful, blue-haired princess — who is based off of their sister, and is Ven’s favorite character — must defeat the witch in a duel of wits, Ven is laughing and smiling. He, too, remembers very well when Aqua, their sister, had become so frustrated with the foulness of their chemistry teacher that she may have caused a teeny, tiny fire during one of their experiments. She and Terra had been suspended for three weeks, for not only had Terra been her lab partner, but also the one to give her the idea.

When Terra can feel the calm breaths of his brother’s slumber, he kisses his forehead and makes himself comfortable for his own repose. What Terra doesn’t know about is Ventus’ ability to fake it; how else would he have been able to spend as much time with Vanitas as he has? Slipping out of bed once his brother is lightly snoring, he grabs his phone and heads out to the back porch. He calls and texts Vanitas over and over, receiving no response. Breath becoming shaky in the cool winter’s night, he curls his toes against the patio, mind wracking for a solution. He doesn’t even know where Vanitas lives, other than the fact that he resides with his rich foster father. Ven has never seen the home where the man he loves grew up; where he was raised, and where he learned to live. And yet Vanitas has seen nearly everything Ven has to offer, and he would make the same decisions every time if it meant they could be close.

Back inside the house, Ven only stays long enough to grab his keys, jacket, and Vanitas’ birthday present, hidden beneath the couch. He slips on his shoes and pauses to smash a text into his phone: “Come meet me.” If his lover reads but one of the messages he’s sent tonight, it has to be this one. It has to be.


	3. rain

Ven runs and runs until his legs ache and he stumbles. Touching the scrape gingerly, he brushes off the gravel and is propelling himself forward once more. Their secret place isn’t too far off, and with the streetlights lit to pave his way, he refuses to stop. And then then he’s there: the place where it all began. It’s a massive cemetery, void of any sort of gate to prevent after-hours entry. Ven knows the exact path to his destination. Having visited their graves so many times, it’s like he’s ingrained the steps in his mind. The graves of his birth parents aren’t adorned with any fancy monument or decoration; they lived and died without much money. There was no inheritance left behind. Ven doesn’t even have anything to remember them by, seeing as how the fire before his first birthday had claimed all. He doesn’t blame himself, the way Aqua does; her parents had died in a car crash on their way home for her eighth birthday. They were picking up her cake. Despite having been an innocent child in the cruel hands of tragedy, she hasn’t celebrated her birthday since. Terra and Ven have tried — in vain — through the years to help her see the truth; the three of them are connected in such a way that when one feels pain, the sadness resonates within the other two. Terra had been given up for adoption as a baby, so he never knew his parents at all.

It was here where, while visiting his parents one day, he first saw Vanitas. He wore a glossy black suit, obviously finely tailored, but the boy still tore at his collar and scratched at his cuffs. Inspecting many of the graves in his boredom, their eyes ended up meeting. Ventus kneeled before the graves of his family with a bouquet in his grip, speechless and alone, for this had been the first time his foster father, Eraqus, had allowed him to visit without him. Terra — freshly licensed and sporting a decent sedan — stood near the car with Aqua, paying respects to people they never knew. They weren’t too far away, but they weren’t close enough to overhear, either.

“Hello. I’m Ventus, but you can call me Ven,” he had said, the plastic wrap of the flowers crinkling in his hands. What Ven remembers most vividly about this day is the way Vanitas laughed, and how his eyes hadn’t been as yellow as they are now. Ven can almost swear they had once been a brilliant blue. Later, Vanitas told him he had been attending the funeral for one of his father’s acquaintances. They ended up meeting again and again in the cemetery; it sure seemed as if Vanitas knew a lot of people who were dying, but Ven never asked. Ven’s first pet — a floppy-eared rabbit named Winny — had died, and he decided to mourn with his parents. Vanitas kissed him as he cried, and as Ven’s heart swelled, he hoped his mother and father approved.

Headlights glare across the trees, and Ven looks up. Unless there’s a mourner at two in the morning, it has to be him. When the lights shut off, he waits patiently, despite the thumping in his chest. Before long, Ven can see the yellow of his eyes as he walks over to him, and Ven leaps the rest of the way, their eyes clashing in the darkness, with the moon to light their path. Opening his arms, he beckons Vanitas towards him. Vanitas pauses, but moves forward to embrace him, and Ven can feel the icy chill rising from his skin; his hair is damp and he smells like the musky shower gel and shampoo he always uses.

Soon, Ven is lost in his lips. First it’s one kiss, then there’s three, then a dozen, because, deep down, there will always be the fear that once he lets go of him, Vanitas will disappear. Remembering why he asked the other teen out here — not counting the fact he just really wanted to see him again — he pulls away, beginning with an unsolicited apology.

“I’m sorry. You know Terra; he’s just…” _Just what? Overprotective, or jealous?_ “He worries about me. I think all good brothers and sisters should worry about each other. Can we go back to the car, though? I have…a present for you.”

“Oh? Do tell,” Vanitas murmurs in a low voice, making Ven shiver. As they return to the parking lot, Vanitas has to catch Ven’s arm before he topples over. “You okay there? How’d you get here, anyways? I know _he_ didn’t drive you.”

“I’m fine. I just...ran.”

“You ran. Chicken-legs you ran all the way out here, to the middle of nowhere?”

It’s a little upsetting to hear Vanitas call this place “nowhere,” because, to Ven, it’s the center of his life. He huffs. “I sure did! We’re pretty much the same size, so that means you’re scrawny, too.”

After opening up the car door and helping Ven inside, Vanitas chuckles and says, “You know, I might have something for the pain,” and it may just be the blond’s imagination, but the words sound teasingly seductive. Vanitas hops up into the driver’s seat and leans over Ven, who’s sweating.

Ven asks, “W-what is it?”

“Just trying to get into the glove box.” Vanitas smirks as Ven pulls back his knees so the other man can retrieve whatever it is he’s looking for. “Why? What did you think I was doing?”

“Teasing me, like you always do.”

“Oh, no; not at all…” Kissing him smoothly, Vanitas hands him the bottle in his hands. Ven gulps and looks down at the label.

“You’re joking,” Ven groans. “ _Camphor?_ ”

“What’s wrong? I said I had something to help your legs, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I thought we were gonna…”

“Gonna what?” The black-haired teen rolls the windows up and turns on the heat. “Have sex?” Having two older siblings, Ven is no stranger to the more mature aspects of life, but the bluntless in which Vanitas uses when talking about them staggers Ven. Taking the silence for his answer, Vanitas asks, “Ventus, would you really want to fuck for the first time in an old truck?”

His tone is playful but genuine, and Ventus has to wonder: _would I?_

“Besides.” Vanitas points to the lotion Ven is awkwardly trying to smear on his legs, loose pants pulled up above his knees. “That’s all I’ve got, and I doubt it’d make good lube.”

“Of course not! It’s so _smelly_!”

“I don’t see you complaining when _I_ wear it.”

 _That’s because...it’s you_ , Ven thinks to himself. Instead he asks, “Do you know what time you were born?”

“Um, I think my birth certificate said sometime in the afternoon.”

Pulling out the gift from his coat pocket, Ven quickly hands it to his companion, babbling, “That means it’s still your birthday! So, here.” He kisses him on both cheeks, then his lips, before sitting back to watch Vanitas unwrap the present. It’s covered in red paper with pictures of bunnies in party hats hopping all over it. Looking at it, Vanitas raises his brow, puzzled. If he hadn’t of met Ven, things like this — so happy, innocent, and carefree — would still frustrate him. Now, they make him think of Ven. He attempts to tear the paper carefully, having decided he wants to keep it, but what’s held within is even better.

After brushing away the last scraps of paper, Vanitas holds what appears to be a small notebook. Pasted all over both covers are pictures of him and Ven. Inside is blank.

“For your thoughts,” Ven explains. This is another one of those times Vanitas can’t put words to the tightening in his chest. Not only do the pictures make him happy, but the journal itself, too; it’s a gift that says Ven is okay with him keeping things to himself. That he loves him for who he is. It’s not often he feels joy like this.

Vanitas places the notebook on the dashboard and scoots over to the blond, trailing sloppy kisses across his lips, then down his neck to the spot he knows Ven loves. Ven’s hands run through his dark hair, and Vanitas slips a hand up his shirt, savoring the heat of Ven’s skin against the coolness of his fingertips. They twist their bodies so they’re lying more comfortably against the seats, and Vanitas slides his tongue into his lover’s mouth, who groans. Trailing his hands down Ven’s body, he grasps his hips, squeezing them lightly before dipping his hands beneath the elastic of his pants. Ven moves his body against his, begging for more. The look on his face — the way Ven’s blue eyes finally close, and the way his lips move as he gasps — spurs Vanitas to move with him faster and faster, nipping at his neck, until they’re both left panting. As the heat of their bodies cools down, the frigid air of the night catches up to them and the sweat covering their bodies chills them.

Soft fingers run through Vanitas’ hair as he wipes them off with tissues from the glove compartment. He leans into Ven’s caress, kissing him deeply, never wanting to let go. The moment is over, however, and Vanitas sits up in the driver’s seat to start the car.

“So this is your new car,” Ven surmises, his voice low and dazed. No matter how many times they touch, it always feels electrifying to Ven. The rumble the truck emits is fairly loud, but comforting. This is a place where they can be themselves. Ven sinks back into the seat after buckling his seatbelt, and the next words he says sound bliss-induced: “Let’s leave together.”

He can’t possibly mean it; Vanitas knows Ven will blab all sorts of things after they’ve been intimate. But he can’t shake this one off, especially with what he’s been dreaming of for so long now.

Vanitas points out, “You’re still in foster care. It’d get me in trouble. Everyone would say I made you come.” What he doesn’t mention is the fact that he’d do it. He would drive him and Ven to the end of the world tonight, but he still needs more time. Just a little more. “And what about your family?”

“They’d be okay,” Ven says solemnly after a pause. Definitely a sore note, but he had to ask; Ven needs to accept what he’ll be giving up.

“Okay. We’ll go. But not ‘til you’re eighteen.” With Ven’s birthday being the first day of summer, he’ll have plenty of time to settle his affairs. Now lacking the light the lampposts bordering the cemetery provided, they can’t see much of each other. Then there’s a turn where Vanitas’ sleeve not only rides up, but they pass a car with bright headlights whose glare hits them in just the wrong way. Vanitas can hear the breath Ventus sucks in and he rolls his eyes, mentally preparing himself for the worst.

“Van…” Nobody else has given him a nickname before. He pulls his sleeve back up, holding it in place with his fingers. “What happened?” Ven is referring to the large gash on his wrist, spanning the entirety of his forearm. But Ven doesn’t know its extent.

Vanitas answers, “It’s nothing.” They’ve had this conversation a thousand times, and every time, Ven has ended up sour from it. Still, he presses on.

“Your dad?”

“It’s complicated.” And he laughs, because it’s actually the truth.

Beside him, Ven shifts to cross his arms. “I bet Terra’s real mad I’m out so late.” As Vanitas parks the car a few houses down from Ven’s, it looks as if every light is on in the blond’s house. But he’s not thinking about this; he’s thinking about how talented Ven has become at not only pushing his buttons, but violently smashing them. It’s always “Terra this” and “Terra that.” “Terra’s so cool; why can I be more like Terra?” Terra, Terra, _Terra_.

“You just love talking about him, don’t you?” Vanitas can see the blue of his lover’s eyes clearly, and hopes Ven can see the yellow of his own just as well. Leaning forward, he brushes his lips against the blond’s ear. “Then why don’t you go fuck him? I’m sure he’s waiting.” He pushes the passenger door open, starts the engine, and waits. Ven’s not even trying to hide the tears anymore, and Vanitas hates the sound. His eyes are open wide, endeavoring to contain his rage in the glare he’s sending the windshield.

When Ven finally chokes out, “I love you,” his voice is so small and fragile. The golden-eyed man can act spontaneously at times, but he knows what he likes and what he hates. As his partner — for lack of a better word — Ven has grown attuned to his interests. Sometimes it’s just so hard to pretend it’s okay. Ven loves Vanitas — maybe more than anything — and as much as he would enjoy hearing about every aspect of his life, he can deal with the unknown, too. What he refuses to deal with is Vanitas’ suffering alone.

“I know,” Vanitas sighs, kissing Ven’s forehead and wiping away the tears. “You better go.” He gently pushes his shoulder, coaxing him into action.

As the truck speeds off down the street — both his damnation and his salvation — Ven unlocks the front door and steps inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ven having a pet rabbit is inspired by the super wonderful [Shelby](http://ventus-went-us.tumblr.com/)!


	4. living

Xehanort has always had three people close to him whom he could trust, if Xehanort can truly trust anyone at all. They deal with the more tedious aspects of the man’s ever-growing business. Vanitas was introduced to them at a young age for educational purposes: Xehanort never had to deal with him crying afterwards. It was, effectually, what broke Vanitas.  
  
All three are golden-eyed. First, there is Xemnas; so obsessed with the workings of the human heart and the concept of nothingness. He has forced Vanitas’ heart to stop beating, but also to renew its life. When he’s the one allowed to lock the teen up, it’s in a pitch black room full of his favorite thing: nothing. When Vanitas was young, he would desperately reach out into the darkness — needing to feel something; anything — but there would be nothing to hold onto. Next, there is Xigbar, whose particular interest deals with space, or lack thereof. No longer is Vanitas afraid of the cramped spaces the man has concocted for him. Lastly, there is the blue-haired Saix, who will leave him in one of the basement’s chambers, with only the moonlight for nourishment.

In the morning, all three men are sitting in the living room. His father is reclined in the tallest, most grandiose chair, and he beckons Vanitas to him with a finger. Vanitas — who is freshly awake, having dreamt of Ventus all night — steps to his father. Grasped by his injured arm, he is dragged into the basement, as if he would have protested otherwise. He is thrown before the body of the man whose eyes he tore out only the night before, his throat and right hand covered in blood. Xehanort roughly twists up his wounded arm as one of the three men — he can’t see which — painfully pulls back his head by the hair.  
  
“My, this one really managed to do a number on you, didn’t he?” Xehanort murmurs.  
  
“Yes, he did, Master.”  
  
“And what is it you did to him?”  
  
Being forced to look up at the man’s lifeless face, he holds no remorse, and says, “I slit his throat.”  
  
“Why?” When no answer comes, he is slapped across the face, and he tastes the blood in his mouth. He savors it, for he is alive. It was Xemnas who slapped him, he sees now; never Xehanort, whose hands — regarding Vanitas — are what he likes to refer to as “clean.”  
  
“His name is Marluxia Flores,” Vanitas retorts instead.  
  
“It was.” Xehanort motions to the shelves of jars on the wall. “And those are his eyes. You took his eyes, and then you took his life.”  
  
Vanitas’ mind spins, for there is no answer; no excuse for what he has done. He doesn’t fight as they push him into one of their dark, little rooms, but he hasn’t in years, so why would he now? Something in the back of his mind tells him he has something to fight for now, but he hides the thought away.  
  
 _You took his eyes, and then you took his life._  
  
He doesn’t feel bad about the latter at all. Musing to himself as they chain him to the wall, he laughs, because he had only come downstairs for something to drink.

* * *

The worst part about coming home is the fact that Ven’s entire family is up waiting for him. Terra crushes him into his arms the moment he steps through the door, ignoring all of the things he planned to say and do in retaliation for making him worry. Aqua is just returning from the kitchen with a glass of water when she sees the display, and while surprised at first, she smiles.

Eraqus is the only one who doesn’t stand to greet him. He waits patiently until Aqua and Terra have steered Ven to sit between them on the couch. Their foster father’s eyes are hard; his hands steepled. Warning Ven about his choice of company hasn’t helped. The more they’ve pushed, the more Ven has openly defied them, and Ven isn’t even one to lie. He has omitted certain parts at times, but he has never lied straight to any of their faces. It is this part of his son he wishes to appeal to: the good, loving, loyal Ven. Throughout the years, he has seen more and more of his personality take shape, and this is the attitude he hopes will always remain true.  
  
“Ven,” he begins carefully, “you know what you’ve done wrong, I trust? Then I need not repeat it. You have heard what I had to say — time and time again — and made your choices, despite that. Now, listen to your brother and sister.”  
  
Squirming in his seat, Ven meekly looks at his brother after a firm hand is placed upon his shoulder, anchoring him.  
  
“I was supposed to be watching you. I should have known better. And I was wrong. I could say so many things right now, like how much I absolutely hate that kid… He’s so toxic for you, and he treats you like dirt, and I hate it. But you’ve heard it a million times. So I’ll just try to tell you how I feel, okay?” Terra takes a deep breath and grasps Ven’s free hand with his own. “When I woke up and you were gone, I was sad, and then I was angry, and then scared. What if he hurt you? What if something or someone else hurt you? And I wasn’t there to protect you, when I was supposed to be watching you. Of course, I can’t be with you all the time — none of us can — but if I can help it, I never wanna see you hurt. And I never, ever want to see you cry.”  
  
His brother doesn’t voice it, but Ven can see the meaning in his eyes: _And Vanitas is the one who makes you cry_. Something from his childhood occurs to him, and he can’t think of their exact ages, but it’s when he was trying to learn how to ride a bike. Terra had just taken off the training wheels of his bicycle, and Ven made it across the street before toppling over into the patch of gravel in front of their neighbor’s yard. The skin encasing the bits of rock had been so red and tender. Ven cried. Terra picked him up, cradling him in his arms, and took him back home to fix him up. Afterwards, Ven sat sniffling on the toilet seat as Terra knelt before him, first aid kit in hand, and kissed him on the forehead. Grabbing Ven’s hand, together they went into the kitchen and ate ice cream. Ven had still been too short to reach the handle on the freezer. Ven wonders if this is the same type of fear his brother feels now. When he thinks back to that day, he can only remember the pain he felt; the pain his brother experienced had been the farthest thing from his mind. Had Terra’s face contorted the way it is now? Had his eyes glimmered in worry? Squeezing his hand and shoulder for comfort, his big brother smiles down at him.  
  
Without being prompted to, the younger of the trio turns to his sister. She’s smiling, too; knowing and accepting. This all had nothing to do with her, right? She disagrees, and explains how they are a unit. They know he’s old enough to be making his own decisions, and mature enough to deal with the consequences. What he isn’t old enough for, however, is being out after curfew, and this is what he’ll be punished for. They way she trails off into fond memories, causing them all to laugh and mention their own favorites, makes Ven feel like being grounded may not be such a bad thing.  
  
With newfound hope, Ven believes he can still somehow discover the balance between his family and his not-exactly-official boyfriend. As his loved ones tuck him into bed — with a kiss from each, for he will never outgrow being the baby to them — he reflects on this, and the warmth he feels being at home, surrounded by all these caring people. What Ven understood from their conversation is that while his family aren’t particularly fond of Vanitas, they were upset because he ran off in the middle of the night without telling anyone. This is what gives him the strength to believe that, someday, it might all be okay.


	5. jealousy

After putting Ven to bed, Aqua and Terra are summoned back into the living room. They share a look — despite having anticipated this — before sitting down.  
  
“There’s something you should both know,” their father confesses, “about Vanitas’ family. The distrust I place in the boy is not misguided. His father is — to put it lightly — an evil man. And his sins are indeed reflected within his son.”  
  
As much as she doesn’t approve of her brother and Vanitas’ relationship, this seems unfair to Aqua. “What his father has done are his own faults,” she says.  
  
Eraqus shakes his head. “You misunderstand me. The boy is his puppet, if you will. He has been groomed for this, as you’ll soon see.” Pulling out a thick stack of papers from his briefcase beside the chair, he passes them to his two oldest children.  
  
“Dad, I don’t get it,” Terra gapes, shuffling through his half of the stack. “These are private records.”  
  
Aqua points out, “Vanitas’ criminal record is, according to this, totally clean. Just what are you trying to show us?”  
  
“His father, Xehanort, and I were peers back in college. He is nothing short of a genius, but his studies took on a dark tone. He left school after his requests went unheeded — cadavers are, of course, a spectacle to be expected, especially in his field of medical study — but he began to ask for _live_ specimens to work on. After I graduated, one of the first cases I received with my law firm had the name ‘Xehanort’ printed on the file. I wasn’t surprised, but the charges turned out to be heinous: grave robbing, murder accusations, torture. Not an hour had passed before I was relieved of the case. The higher-ups said it had been a mistake for the rookie to have gotten such an intense job right off the bat. Be that as it may, the case was never pursued by another lawyer. It never went to court and was dropped entirely.”  
  
“How could that be?” Aqua asks, hands shaking.  
  
“Oh, he’s always been rich; more money than he knows what to do with, I’m sure,” continues their father. “Donate to a few charities here, build a hospital there, fund a few expensive programs in schools… The law is utterly in his pocket. Have you both not always felt watched here? Xehanort has his hands in everything here. _He owns this town_.”  
  
Aqua murmurs, “So you’re saying Vanitas’ record, too, has been wiped clean?”  
  
“Precisely. I’ve seen a few charges come through before being completely erased; mainly aggravated assault. Theft. Stalking, disorderly conduct; voluntary manslaughter. I’ve obtained proof of some, but not all.”  
  
“My God. So a restraining order forbidding him from seeing Ven is out of the question, I’m guessing?”  
  
For the majority of the conversation so far, Terra has tried to stay focused and unbiased. But Vanitas is even more of a creep than he thought, and now their father is telling them he’s not just that: he’s also been proven to be not only dangerous, but deadly, too. Eraqus has known this whole time, and he has said nothing.  
  
Aqua now has the entirety of the incriminating documents scattered in front of her on the coffee table, so Terra’s hands are free. He clenches and unclenches them methodically, willing his anger to cool. If Ventus weren’t asleep — and preferably not even in the house — he would scream. How could their oh-so trusted, reliable father do this to them? Why had he even stayed in this crummy little town? Terra could almost forgive his foster father for keeping them in such a place, if it hadn’t been for Ven. Ven should never have been kept here; Terra and Aqua have always been able to take care of themselves for the most part, but Ven is different. He’s not weak; he’s…  
  
 _Can’t sum him up in just one word, huh?_  
  
Ven just isn’t someone Terra is willing to lose. If Eraqus didn’t think of himself, nor Terra or Aqua, he should have thought of little Ventus, always smiling and so pure. Him meeting Vanitas could have been avoided if they had moved. But they hadn’t, and Terra is stuck back in the present, his hands aching from the strain. Now what are they supposed to do? Even if he could convince their father to move, it’s too late now. The damage has been done. Ven even turns eighteen in a few months, so he’d just run back here. Back to Vanitas.  
  
Aqua and their father are still engrossed in looking over the various documents. Do they really think they’ll find something helpful? Outside of restraining Ventus, they don’t have many options. Unless Vanitas were to disappear. But that’s not the real thought that flashes through Terra’s mind.  
  
 _What if I killed him?_  
  
The thought makes him smile. If his dad or sister had looked at him, they would have known something was very wrong. A strange sensation tingles up his spine, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost call it glee.  
  
After excusing himself for bed, he makes his way to the room he and Ven shared growing up. The night-light plugged in next to Ven’s bed sends a faint glow across the room. In slumber, his little brother looks at peace. Terra crawls under the covers with him, barely fitting in the small bed, so he holds Ven close to him. His thumb runs down his cheek and past his jaw. Leaning up to kiss Ven’s forehead, something in Terra’s mind slips, and instead, he’s kissing his lips. The worst part might be how it doesn’t feel wrong in the slightest. Over and over he tells himself he never contemplated this before now, and another part of him wonders why he hadn’t.  
  
He doesn’t see when Ventus wakes up, but he feels his body stir. Confused hands press upon his shoulders, and when Terra pulls back slightly, he hears a quiet whisper of his name.  
  
“Ter...ra?”  
  
The brunet kisses his brother once more, refraining from using his tongue. He tries to forget it’s there at all as he breathes everything in. Ven’s fingers clutch at him, and he can’t tell whether he’s attempting to pull him in or push him away. Terra has never really kissed anyone; not like this. No one he’s ever dated has felt like this against him. He’s not thinking; just feeling.  
  
Eventually he pulls back completely, pushing Ven beneath him on the mattress. Ven’s eyes are thinned; slipping closed. Terra has never wanted anyone more in his life. He kisses down Ven’s neck hungrily, sucking lightly as he makes his way down to his collarbone. Ven is moving his body with Terra’s, their hips meeting finally, making Terra gasp, just as there’s a soft knock on the door. Reality kicks in and Terra turns onto his side, pulling Ven to his chest and covering them both with the blanket.  
  
Whoever it is merely cracks open the door before closing it, but it’s enough for Terra. His breath is thick in his throat. Ven rolls over and chants his name over and over, but Terra is so far away right now, like he’s standing over by the window, watching this all unfold.  
  
“Terra,” Ven is saying, “Terra, what just happened?”  
  
Blinking slowly, Terra replies, “I… don’t know. I’m sorry, Ven. I’m so sorry. We can’t tell Dad or Aqua, okay?” Adding this to his apology makes it sound so dirty, and he cringes. Ven begins to cry at this, feeling the brother he idolizes is disgusted with him.  
  
“I won’t. I won’t tell Dad or Aqua. I swear.”  
  
Ven has never lied to him, so he feels a little more at east. The blond’s sniffling has mostly died out by the time Terra’s eyes shoot back open.  
  
“Ven? Venny. You can’t tell Vanitas, either. Okay?”  
  
But Ven is already asleep.


	6. games

It’s been days since Vanitas’ birthday, and Ven hasn’t been able to establish contact with him ever since. At first, he was scared. Would he ever see the man he loved again? No matter how many times Vanitas disappears for days or weeks at a time, the thought gnaws at him. Then, he was sad; he missed those yellow eyes and the way he teased. Now the days have become sluggish and lonesome.

The holidays passed quietly, despite all of the gifts he received: a new pair of his favorite checkered sneakers from Dad, and the new console game he’d been wanting from Aqua. Terra gave him books; a mountain of books that he could read by himself if he really wanted to, but they’ve been much more fun to read together. They’ve done so nearly everyday since the incident. Terra doesn’t like to talk about it, and Ven can see how bad he feels. He just wishes he could take some of the guilt away from his brother, because they were both at fault. Even if Ven wasn’t fully aware of what had transpired at the time, Terra could say the same, could he not? They had both been in what their father would call a “fragile state of mind.” What had been eating his brother that night, Ven didn’t know. Was he still afraid something bad would happen to Ven? Did he kiss him like that because he was so scared of losing his baby brother?

At first, Ven dreamt it was Vanitas kissing him. It didn’t take very long for him to realize it wasn’t Vanitas at all, and yet he hadn’t pushed his brother away. He embraced the affection Vanitas never gave easily. Now he sees the error in accepting a substitute: it burns in his chest like a hot flame. It’s the feeling of having been the one to carry out a betrayal.

Over New Year’s, Terra even let him have a sip of his beer. Ven didn’t like it one bit.

The snow on the ground is melting now, and it’s mostly brown instead of a polished white. Sometimes Ven deliriously wonders if Vanitas had been real at all. When Terra picks him up from school, his eyes scouting the area, it’s proof enough for him that he’s not the only one who remembers. Had their father put Terra up to the task of keeping an eye out for Vanitas? Or was it something his brother decided to do by himself? Ven catches the laugh in his throat before he can open his mouth. It was a laugh like Vanitas’; a cruel laugh.

At home, Ven works on his homework, munching on some of the chocolate he had received in his stocking. But no munny — not even a gift card. Usually he’d be given around twenty munny for Christmas and his birthday. With munny, he could do anything, and with gift cards, of course his family would think he’d turn it into a date with Vanitas. Did they really not trust him that much? What had Ven done to deserve such distrust?

Tapping his pencil on his binder, Ven thinks. His family doesn’t like Van. Plus, they were upset he had snuck out so late. Did that warrant this sort of reaction?

 _No, it doesn’t_ , Ven reasons. _Unless there’s something else. Something they haven’t told me._ But what kind of information could they possibly have? Ven’s mind runs blank. Unless his dad isn’t really a lawyer, and is actually a secret agent. Aqua and Terra would probably be on it, too. Ven sighs. If only things were that simple.

Maybe, when he turns eighteen, he and Vanitas really will leave. But not forever; he’s not trying to punish his family. It’ll be like a vacation of sorts. A little trip. An adventure. He’ll bring back exotic presents and stories that will seem bogus, but are really, shockingly true. Vanitas will be with him, and he’ll add in all the important details Ven forgets to mention. Things will be okay.

As sunset is dying down, there’s a knock on his window. He ignores it at first, thinking it might be the wind, brushing against the house. It continues, however, so he stretches and walks over to the window. It’s dark outside, but he can still see the golden eyes peering through the glass. He shudders, blaming the chill, but in a corner of his mind, he wonders how long these eyes have been watching him. They look even brighter than the last time he’s seen them, as if they feed off the darkness.

Opening the window, Ven hisses, “What are you doing here?” He tries not to think about how much he wants to kiss him and pull him inside. Vanitas cocks his head as if to laugh, but he knows better.

“I missed you,” he says, making the pit of Ven’s stomach ache. He’s never said anything like that before; he’s never told Ven he cares, in so little words. Reaching out to touch his face, Ven feels the firmness of his cheekbones like never before. The butterflies in his stomach change into something more akin to dread. Vanitas’ skin looks paler, too; far less tan and somehow missing that human glow. Ven tells himself it’s only the awkward lighting of the changing sky, but now he’s not so sure.

“Vanitas, what happened?” In response, Ven only receives a chaste kiss on the nose, then each cheek. Never the lips. Could he know? Ven’s hands fall, and he grips the windowpane, his skin clammy. Are those eyes mocking him? “I’m sorry, Vani. I’m sorry.”

The smirk never leaves his guest’s lips. If anything, it widens as if to ask, “For what?”

“It was an accident,” Ven blurts, the tears cutting down his face like shards of ice. Finally, the smile is gone. It drops off so quickly, maybe Ven imagined it.

The black-haired man’s voice is low when he asks, “What was an accident?”

“The… the kiss.”

“The kiss.” His tone is venom now, burning Ventus’ veins. “You kissed him.” Not even having been asked who, Ven cries harder, because Vanitas only had to guess. So he hadn’t known, after all? It would have come out eventually; better now, right?

Ven’s vision blurs through the tears.

“Wow. I told you to go fuck him, and you really listened, huh?”

“No!”

“Was he good? Did you like it when he fucked you? Did you pretend it was me?”

The last thing Ven can say before his sister bursts into the room, startled by the noise, is, “It wasn’t like that!” Vanitas is already gone, though, and Aqua has to pry Ven’s fingers off the windowsill.


	7. plague

It’s officially Spring now. The snow has washed away, and it’s warm, but tolerable. Ven’s siblings have been spending more time at the house. At first it dealt with their obligation in watching over him, but they’ve both come to realize they miss being around as much as they used to be.

On many nights, they pitch a small tent in the backyard. Terra always does most of the actual tent-building; Aqua gathers the food, blankets, and flashlights while Ven follows her around, toting around as much of their equipment as he can.

Outside in the tent, they tell scary stories. Terra even illustrates the tall tales with his hands over the glow of the flashlight. The characters might be blobs, but Terra has a knack for it. Aqua and Ven laugh while Terra tries to keep a straight face through his outlandish stories. When the stars come out, they all peek their heads out of the tent to watch. At times like these, the hollowness in Ven’s chest isn’t as nearly as suffocating.

Vanitas’ name hasn’t come up in a long while, for which a part of him is grateful. Hearing his name hurts, but the other half of him doesn’t want to forget. This isn’t a passing fling; he still loves him. He can understand if he’s never forgiven, but he still hopes. Hoping he’ll see those eyes again plagues his dreams, but by the end of March, they’re not quite as vibrant as they had once been. It’s not Ven accepting that part of his life is over; it’s more like, deep down, he believes whatever happens will be for the best. Vanitas is his first love. The ache will never entirely subside.

Looking for him used to be something Ven did everyday. He looked for him before and after school, despite knowing Vanitas had been homeschooled his entire life. Maybe he was there, hidden amongst the trees. Maybe he wasn’t. Ven started accompanying his family whenever they went shopping, as well. Vanitas had to eat sometime, right? Surely he’d need new clothes at some point. But Ven never saw him. Not at the mall; not at any of his favorite restaurants. The depth of his longing remains, but now it’s evolved into something much more patient. Almost like he’s waiting. When his eyes gloss over his surroundings on a daily basis, the feeling in his stomach is anxious and yet somehow serene. He tells himself, no, it’s not because in a few weeks, this _still_ won’t be the longest Vanitas has been mad at him and stayed away before. Ven thinks of them as trips; he imagines his lover on a luxurious cruise, basking in the heat on the deck of a colossal ship, with sunglasses protecting his sensitive eyes from the sun’s glare. Or sometimes he’s on an extensive hike in a remote area, far away from here. Maybe this is what Vanitas does when he is away from Ventus. Maybe he’s not mad at all; not anymore. It no longer feels real to Ven, as if it had been a dream, and he’s just waiting for his love to return to him.

It’s an absurd thought, and not one he dwells on directly too much, but it bleeds through his mind like a program ingrained in his brain. It gnaws at him from behind his focus.

_Vanitas will be back. He has to be._

It’s an absurd thought, but not one he has ever questioned.

* * *

The break — the crack that finally tears apart the delicate seams of his life to reveal the gaping maw within — comes on a warm evening on the cusp of Summer. Vanitas is returning from watching Ven. Carefully, of course; always careful. Never seen, he has slipped in amongst the shadows. Ven is always looking out dreamily, as if he knows he’s there. There’s a facet of Ven that does know — it’s why he doesn’t cry about it anymore. Vanitas has seen him; not like his father does, but enough.

Xehanort is standing at the front window tonight, the curtains billowing behind him like a barrier. Vanitas’ ring of keys is being twirled around his fingers, and he nearly drops them at the sight, because he has never seen his father waiting for him downstairs before. The fear is squashed down quickly, however, and inside the house, he is met with the same blank stare he has come to be ruled by.

“Go to him,” his father says. Vanitas rolls his eyes; had Xehanort seen? He’s stepping toward him slowly, hands clasped behind his back. With no goons to back the man up this time, Vanitas feels defiance bubble in his chest.

“And why is that?”

His father’s hand whips across his face so fast, it’s returned to its position behind his back before Vanitas can even blink. The ring he never knew his father to wear cut across his lip, leaving behind a burning sensation that stings his skin. Everything about tonight is different; it’s miles outside of his spectrum. The room spins, and he grabs onto the small table beside him to steady himself.

“ _You will go to him._ ” It’s the last thing the man known as Xehanort says; tonight, and for a long time to come. Vanitas licks at the iron coating his teeth, and looks into those eyes: the eyes that never loved him, only scorned.

Any sort of tool he could think of is available to him, he knows. Silent or conspicuous, microscopic or two-handed, Xehanort has it all, catalogued and carefully organized in the bowels of the basement for easy retrieval. In the end, it’s something simple, and not creative in the slightest: a shovel from the gardener’s shed. From the wear on the handle, it has arguably been the favorite of many of the people who worked the land — and died upon it, as well. These were all people whose eyes Vanitas had held in his very hands at some point; eyes he could have crushed with his fingers, or dropped to the floor to squish beneath his toes. Then there was the one man whom he had shown mercy, and paid the heavy price for — the price he is still paying.

Tonight will be a mercy. He chants the word over and over in his head: _mercy, mercy, mercy_. Not just for himself, either. The shovel becomes sticky with his sweat, but his hold never falters. Not even when he’s killed with his own hands — really killed, and not just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, because this is right; so right — and not even when there’s globs of gray matter sticking to the blade of the shovel. He looks at it, almost comically. His father never thought he had it in him, did he? Throughout the years — the punishment, the torture — Xehanort never truly believed in him.

After covering the body in the back of his truck with a blue tarp, he sets off to his semi-final destination. The freedom of the night swells within him, and he sings.

With bits of blood still caked beneath his fingernails, he knocks on Ven’s window —  _rap rap rap_  — for the first time in months.

Tonight, they will dance in the graveyard. Vanitas’ plague has begun.


	8. bury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've hit over ten-thousand words with this chapter! Pretty cool.

A restful sleep skillfully evades Ven. All he's been able to muster through the night has been a light doze for no more than a few minutes at a time. He tosses and turns, throwing the covers off of himself in a frenzy.

Aqua and his father were busy today, so he was alone with Terra all afternoon after school. It was the first time he and Terra had been alone in the house since before Christmas. He wasn't scared — not of Terra. Ven didn't think he could ever legitimately fear his loving brother. What had bothered Ven was how quiet his sibling had been. Watching TV and later washing the dishes, Terra seemed to be avoiding Ven. Even when Ven was in the same room, he tried to avoid eye contact. Did he not trust Ven to behave, or was it himself?

Their father's arrival home from work had Terra speeding through the front door. Even Eraqus was surprised, and didn't have enough time to ask his eldest son if he'd like to stay for dinner. It's Ven's birthday tomorrow, and he would have liked help planning how to celebrate it from his older son. He sighed, knowing he and Aqua would be alone in their task.

Ven hadn’t even cried, either. The hurry his brother was in to leave — without even a "goodbye" or an "I love you" — upset him, but he didn't cry. Alone in his room, he doesn't cry now, either. In a way, the past few months have steeled him. People leave, but they always come back, right? In one form or another, they return.

* * *

When he is once again greeted with knocks upon his window, this time he doesn't ignore the rousing. His chest squeezes painfully, and the eyes that greet him gleam hair-raisingly like they never have before.

"We have to go," Vanitas says. Ven wracks his brain for the definition of “go” — as in, sneak out? Or something much more long-term? They had talked about it, but this is sudden. Too sudden. Vanitas can't possibly mean something more, but his impatient hands pulling Ven's window open wider and snatching at his wrists say otherwise. Together, they heave Ven through the window. As they speed over to the truck, which is parked a few houses down, Vanitas holds Ventus' hand.

Once they’ve arrived at the car, Vanitas opens the passenger side door and pulls something out from beneath the seat. Ven is choked up to see it's the present he gave Vanitas, and that, from what he can see, many pages are filled. Vanitas tears out a sheet of paper and hands it to Ven, along with a grease pencil from the glove compartment that he uses to mark papers.

In the light of the streetlamp, Ven notices his bloodied lip, and he may even see the dark red under his nails. But now isn't the time to ask questions, is it?

"Do you trust me?" Vanitas asks, his eyes open wide. Ven can't read his face. He nods. Leading him to the back of the truck, Vanitas lifts up the tarp just enough to show Ven what it hides: something large wrapped up in blotch-stained sheets. The lumps at the end that curve into long, slim shapes make him think of legs. But whose? When Ven pressed Vanitas to seek help about his father's abuse, he hadn't meant something like this. The deed is done, however, and Ven clutches the paper to his chest as Vanitas re-attaches the tarp.

Ven can only guess what the paper is for. He lays it against the truck and glides the grease pencil across the paper to write, "I'm sorry." What else is there to say?

"Make sure they know I'm not kidnapping you or anything," Vanitas reminds him.

To his goodbye letter, Ven adds, " I love you. Don't worry, I'm happy." The three letters of his adored nickname are the hardest to write out at the end. He's trapped; doomed. But with Vanitas, he can honestly say he's happy. Can they escape this? He doesn't know, but he knows they'll try.

After Ven has placed the note on his bed and weighed it down with a book from his night-stand, he looks around his room for the last time. His bookshelf stands out in the dark, and he reaches out to grab the first book his hand touches, its title illegible. He returns to the truck and sits beside Vanitas, mumbling to himself, “Why leave a note at all?”

* * *

Vanitas doesn’t tell him it’s because of the looks of horror his family will wear after reading the note.

* * *

Their visit to the cemetery tonight is similar to the time they came in December. Except the air is muggier now, and Ven didn't have to run here. And there's a body in the back of the truck, of course. Why bury his father in an actual graveyard? The sentiment isn’t lost on Ven.

Vanitas gathers the tarp in his arms and leads Ven deep through the graves, farther than he's ever been before. There's a patch of recently disturbed earth, although no headstone has been put up yet to mark it. The look in Vanitas' eyes should explain it all, but Ven sees now the complexity they hold. He doesn't know everything. He couldn't.

Vanitas lays down the tarp somewhat close to the fresh grave. As he pulls Ven back to the truck, Ven condenses his life in his head, attempting to rationalize all he's seen tonight., but also knowing the worst has yet to come. This has to be right. Somewhere along the way, Vanitas became the most vibrant force in his life. Looking around — the stone graves smooth in the night, and the moonlight bathing them eerily — Ven swallows. It hadn't been the cemetery he cherished for bringing them together. When they pass his parents' graves, Ven silently says goodbye. He longs for their comfort on this night; that of people he can barely remember.

They take the body over next. Vanitas insists he can do it alone, but asks Ven to help, anyways; it'll make the work faster and easier, he says. The body is wrapped so tightly, Ven can't discern any detail on what Vanitas' father had worn at the time of his death. He never thought a body would be this heavy, but he never thought he would be carrying one like this, either. Vanitas holds the shoulders while Ven supports the legs.

After arriving back at the pre-determined resting place, Vanitas leaves him alone for a few minutes to retrieve the shovels and a crowbar; the final tools. But not the final piece of the puzzle. Ven runs his eyes over the scene before him: all dark shapes, but he can tell which are which. All of the small, rounded ones are markers in memory of people who have passed. The long, rectangular shape on the ground that cracks softly against the wind is Vanitas' tarp, and next to it is the corpse of his father.

They begin to dig when Vanitas returns. The dirt from their shovels is flung onto the tarp; even Ven knows this, although his aim is less than perfect. In some questionable swings — with Ven's hands shaking, and the sweat dripping down his arms making his hold flimsy — he nearly clobbers Vanitas.

* * *

Adrenaline is rushing through the older teen, and dodging Ven's shovel has almost become a game. Four hands do make lighter work, though. Vanitas has never had help on these sorts of expeditions; before when his father used to send him out to collect newly-deceased bodies to work on, Vanitas dug alone. He could almost call this a bonding experience.

The first to climb out of the finished hole is Vanitas, and he kneels in the dirt to help Ven up.

"You're not gonna like this part," he says, steering Ven in the direction of his parents' graves. After Vanitas sees Ven drop down before them in exhaustion, he hops back in the hole to pry open the casket. The man's once empty sockets have been replaced with fake eyes, maybe made of glass. Vanitas only knows this because he had been there when his father picked out the real ones. Xehanort had even helped fund the funeral. After all, the gardener had died on his property, and upon his very own gardening tools. It was ruled an accident, of course. It's always an accident. Unique to this case, though, had been his father's peculiar interest in dealing with the remains. Usually once their captives died — primarily from blood-loss or starvation — the bodies would be dumped without care in the river or woods. Or incinerated, or left in the backyard of a political enemy.

This time, Xehanort wished to see the faces of the deceased's loved ones in person. To him, it was like reality television. He gave the family a sick sort of closure, for once; not something he normally did. Throughout the funeral, he had watched Vanitas guilting Xehanort with his eyes. It had been his son who killed him, after all.

* * *

The casket's on the large side, but when Vanitas pushes the second body inside, it won't close all the way. After readjusting a few stiff limbs, he almost decides to jump on the coffin — a morbid dance — to try to close it. But, as sweet as this business has been, he'd rather be spending this time with Ven instead of executing the perfect murder. He pushes the dirt back in himself, rolling the tarp over and effectively creating a sort of funnel back into the ground. Once he's patted down the top layer of soil and rolled the tools up in the plastic tarp, he contemplates dancing, but realizes he doesn’t know how.

Ven's back is facing him as he approaches. He's slumped over, his hands clutching the stone of his parents’ graves. When Vanitas says his name, he stands, turning to him; his eyes are wet, but he doesn't cry.

"I was just saying goodbye," Ven explains.

"Sorry," Vanitas says quickly, like a reflex. He isn't sorry that he's killed anyone, nor about how anything leading up to this night has transpired. What he’s truly sorry for is how their journey to be together has been so complicated. Ven gawks at him, soaking this in for a moment — the first time Vanitas has apologized to him, as brief as it was — before the older man pulls him in and twirls him around. It's not quite dancing, and it's not on the grave itself, but it's still pleasant.

* * *

Finally, when they're back out on the road — an expanse devoid of life for as far as Vanitas can see — Ven doesn't ask where they're headed, so he brings it up himself.

"I was supposed to get this huge mansion from my birth parents when they died. Or maybe it's a castle. I've never actually seen it. I'm eighteen now, so either way, it's mine."

"Isn't that the first place anyone would look?" Ven ponders.

Vanitas shakes his head. "The only person who knows about it is my dad. It'll take a few days to get there."

But that's not what Ven's really worried about. "Do you think we'll be okay?"

Looking into the rearview mirror, Vanitas answers, "Yeah, I do." They're still within the town's limits, and the sky is smoky with pinks and purples. As an afterthought, he asks, "What time were you born?"

"My dad…” Ven looks out the window. “He always said it was a few hours after sunrise. He wasn’t even there — it was just on my birth certificate. But it still made him smile."

Vanitas kisses him on the cheek at the next stoplight and says, "Happy birthday." 


	9. tear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at one-hundred kudos! Thank you so much for keeping up with this morbid little story.
> 
> Fall term started for me today, so if there's a lot of crying meshed in here... Well, don't be surprised.

Vanitas has never been patient. Not like Ven’s family. To be more precise: not like Terra. But here are those bad thoughts again, gnawing at him. When will he be able to see everyone? He doesn’t miss them — not yet. The realization of what’s happening hasn’t sunk in yet. He hopes they aren’t worrying too much. They just need to have a little faith.

The lack of familiarity around him — the softness of his worn-out sheets, and the occasional snore of Terra from across the room — is what has brought out his anxieties.

They’re staying in a small bed and breakfast a few towns over. The room is antiquely furnished; each piece of the bedroom set is made from aged wood with intricate pattern detailing, while the walls are painted a soft pastel blue. It smells exceptionally clean to Ven, and this is what he first noticed about the room. Different, but nice.

Ven’s lying back on the bed. There’s only one; the older woman who checked them in hadn’t given them any sort of weird look, either, for which Ven was grateful. In fact, she had smiled warmly at them. It made him feel a little more at ease to know while his thoughts and fears raged within his mind, the outside world could still be so calm.

Vanitas’ shower is brief — it had been his first destination after dropping his bag and keys onto the nightstand — and he emerges from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his hips. Ven’s eyes trace down his neck to his chest, then lower, and once he’s caught himself staring, his face burns. The look on Vanitas’ face is blank, but Ven can see the way he’s examining him right back; dissecting him in silence with those eyes. He sits up, pulling his knees to his chest, and Vanitas scowls before resuming his task of retrieving some clothes to wear. Before too long, the bathroom door clicks shut and Ven is alone with his thoughts once more.

When Vanitas had first decided to shower, he asked Ven to join him in that sickly sweet, sultry voice of his. But like with most of Vanitas’ advances, Ven couldn’t tell whether he were being teased or not. What if he had said yes? Would Vanitas have laughed at him? Maybe when Ven takes a shower — in the morning, perhaps — he’ll ask Vanitas to join _him_. If only he could muster such boldness, the way Vanitas seems to grasp it so easily.

Hands aching, Ven holds out his arms to inspect them for the millionth time. They’re not exactly swollen, but his fingers are still a throbbing mess. He thinks: _What if this is proof enough?_  He’s washed his hands over and over, but the darkened tint courtesy of earth still seems to blemish his skin. It must be exhaustion, though. Sometimes his hands look muddy, like he’s scooped up gobs of wet dirt after a hard rain. When he blinks, his hands are clean again. Whether exhaustion or guilt — or maybe even both — are the cause of his paranoia, he’s not sure.

Ven’s still inspecting the microscopic specks of dirt on his hands when Vanitas steps out of the bathroom, this time dressed in a loose t-shirt and shorts. Something lands on Ven’s stomach, and he jumps. It’s the same camphor-infused lotion Vanitas kept in his car.

“It’s not really ideal,” Vanitas says, leaning down to re-organize the clothes in his bag. “But it should help.”

That day back in December seems so long ago. They are — in every sense of the word — alone, but it doesn’t feel that way; not like the day they met in the cemetery and made out in Vanitas’ truck. Is it the law at the back of his mind? Do the police even know Xehanort is dead yet? This all won’t simply disappear, Ven knows, but there’s a more sinister element to this he’s feeling, like they’re heading in the wrong direction. How much does Vanitas even know about the place they’re headed towards, anyways? How does he know it’s _safe_?

Vanitas crawling into bed distracts Ven from everything else. They’ve never slept together in the same bed like this before. It’ll be comfortable like it never has been before; no family to barge in and tear them apart. Ven notes his lover’s once-again all black attire. Something about the high of being together Vanitas like this pushes him to ask, for the very first time: “Is black your favorite color?”

Scooting closer to him, Vanitas murmurs, “Hm? No, of course not.” The tone in which he answers almost sounds offended, as if Ven should have known this by now; as if the mere implication itself is absurd. “Black isn’t a color, anyways. Not really.”

“Then what is it? Your favorite color, I mean.”

Vanitas rolls onto his side to peer at Ven. He brings his arm up to trace Ven’s cheek-bones with the tips of his fingers. “If you must know, it’s blue. Which is funny, right, seeing as how it’s a mutation, and all.”

Ven doesn’t ask for clarification; he realizes he already knew, or at least could have guessed. What makes him cringe is Vanitas having used the word “mutation,” and using it to reference _him_.

“You’re all mutants,” mumbles Vanitas, eyes slowly slipping shut. “All mutants…”

“Vani…?”

“You were right, you know? My eyes haven’t always been like this. But that’s a story for another night.” Vanitas laughs, rolling onto his back. “You were never crazy, Ventus. You were just the only one who wanted to see.”

 _What...is that supposed to mean?_ Ven wonders. _How could eyes change color like that? And how could he just drop the subject at that?_

Leaning over him, Ven whispers his name. All he receives in response is a mumbled breath that, if Ven really wanted to, he could twist into something much more. It almost sounds like Vanitas is saying something Ven knows he would never say. Before clicking off the lamp on the nightstand, Ven kisses his lover goodnight.

When Ven closes his eyes, he still hears the words he never thought Vanitas could utter: “I love you...”

* * *

Even if he had tried his hardest — squinted his eyes and scoured his brain for any remnant of recollection — Ven still wouldn’t be able to remember the last dream he had. It’s not as if he doesn’t dream; he simply chooses to forget. To this day, he’s been willing to leave them all behind, whether they be nightmares or peculiar comedies. When they were much younger, Terra had taught him to keep his eyes closed and lie still when he woke up. Through this, Ven learned how to consciously sift through some of his dreams from the previous night’s slumber. But even so, he can’t quite recall the last time he’s even used this method. This is why, now, the fact that he knows he’s in a dream startles him. 

Ven is walking, but his legs don’t move. He feels the movement, but he makes no progress towards what he deems his goal: the dining table back at home. Upon it rests a thin, white object — an envelope, perhaps — that he knows is from Terra. Nothing tells him; there is no guiding voice in his head to direct him. It is known. He begins to run, and he even trips but he is no closer to the sheet upon the table. The paper could be nothing, or the paper could be everything.

 _Terra_ —

His brother is sitting in the large recliner in the living room — the “head” chair, as they always called it; the one their father always sits in — and he leans forward, towering over the coffee table. Fingers moving so deftly, Ven’s eyes can barely pick up their movement, he starts to write something. With what paper, and what pen, it doesn’t matter; Ven can see his intention as clear as day.

 _Terra is_ —

There is a cry, not unlike a child’s. Something falls on the floor; something Ven knows. Something Ven has used. Did they used to keep it by the front door? It has a black, webbed cloth with a protruding, curved pole. His hands are wet; it’s falling from the sky, and he is drenched. But then the images are fading, fading, and he reaches his arm out towards them.

This is how he wakes up: arm outstretched, heart thudding, and eyes dripping tears. He wills his body to remain still so that he might uncover its secrets — for what are dreams, if not subconscious thought — but the pictures are so blurry, he can’t quite make them out.

 _Terra is_ —

It’s hopeless. There’s not even a miniscule piece to grab onto; all that’s left is the fear the dream has left behind. Ven opens his eyes, releasing the dream, and scoots his body closer to Vanitas’ to feel his skin and quench his fear. In less than a minute, the dream has almost entirely evaporated into the recess of his inner consciousness; the things we do not think, but always know.

And it is there, even now.


	10. watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of semantic satiation going on here. I read over my stuff so much now that it's virtually impossible to catch every error, so if you see something, please let me know! I love hearing from you.
> 
> Also, past fifteen-thousand words with this chapter...! Am I going to cry every time we pass another 5k? Probably. My written word count is really skewed compared to this. I think at this point, it was around ten-thousand in my notebook, so it's nice to see the number even higher in reality.

The first to awaken in the morning is Vanitas. He shakes Ven’s shoulder, informing him before he’s fully awake that he should shower before they leave. Ven’s eyelids finally peel open, and what he notices as he groggily stretches his limbs is that Vanitas is already dressed. When he rolls out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom, Vanitas is working on packing their stuff back into the car. It’ll only take one more trip, so Ven hurries with his shower. It feels — to put it lightly — so pointless. The hot water scalds his flesh, but he doesn’t bother turning it down. The sensation of truly being clean isn’t the only thing evading him; there is also a lack of companionship. Would it be worthwhile to ask Vanitas for a little support, in a simple way? Maybe stopping for breakfast somewhere, or a quick kiss. Something easy for both of them. Would it be selfish to ask Vanitas to help him, with subtle words? Ven sighs, the dream’s contents having been long forgotten, but its dread still feeding off of him like mold.

Ven sweeps his eyes across the small room once he’s finished with his shower, giving it the final acknowledgement he feels it deserves. This has been just one night so far, and while it hasn’t been the best, at least it’s only the first.

 _Sometimes things have to get a lot worse before they’ll get any better._ Had it been his sister who told him this once?

In the car, Vanitas has a few things he nabbed from the buffet in the kitchen on his way out: two muffins, some sliced fruit, and a small waffle. Ven chokes out the tiniest of sobs as he realizes that, yes, it _would_ be difficult to garner some consolation from his lover right now. Vanitas is the one who had taken a life, not Ven. The fact that Vanitas had been in such a hurry to leave — and not even staying for breakfast — tells Ven a lot about what he’s feeling. While being anxious around strangers and people he doesn’t like, Vanitas would at least attempt to be hospitable. If he could have emotionally handled sitting down for breakfast with Ven, the proprietress, and the other lodgers, Ven knows he would have. Eventually he may have shouted or stormed off in a huff, but he would have tried. For Ven.

Vanitas tears the waffle in half, but Ven ends up with what looks to be at least two-thirds of it. When he turns to ask Vanitas why, he finds his companion staring out through the window, quietly chewing his portion. The syrup of the fruit coats Ven’s fingers and, not having a napkin, he decides to lick his fingers before wiping them on his pants. Vanitas looks over now, of all times, causing Ven to slow his motions, feeling bold. His face is hot and his breath is quick, but he keeps his gaze steady, despite wanting to close his eyes or fill his vision with yellow eyes and tanned skin. The movement of his fingers across his lips are exaggerated and confused — what is he even _doing_? — and yet he can feel the tension burning the air. It’s what drives him. When he finally wipes his hands off on his thigh and looks over to the driver’s seat, Vanitas has one hand draped over his seat, leaning back towards the window, curiosity piqued. A genuine smile is stretched across his face; it’s not a malicious smirk or one of his trademark scowls. For once, Vanitas just looks happy.

* * *

A few hours later, Vanitas is turning the truck into a small gas station. The bell dings beneath them — a relic from when the station had attendants to pump the gas for customers, perhaps — and Vanitas swears as he slams the car door shut. They’ve passed the stateline, so things will be different now. No more of the local restaurants Ven is used to, no having gas pumped for them, and now they’ll be paying a sales tax with most purchases. None of it bothers Ven too much — it’s just different. Something new. All a part of the adventure, right?

It bothers Vanitas, though. Ven can hear him swear again as he fumbles with the gas pump. There’s a _clunk_  as Vanitas finally manages to fit it in through the fuel door. He knocks on the passenger-side window, startling Ven, who had begun to doze off. After the window is cranked down, Vanitas leans his elbow on the door handle, explains he has to pay inside, and kisses Ven’s forehead lightly before leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The welcoming bell chimes again, but Ven is zoning out. They’re still out in the countryside, far away from everything Ven grew up with. A few miles back, they even passed some horses grazing in a large field. Ven had pressed his face to the glass in delight at seeing a horse in person for the first time. Even the air smells better out here; everything just feels so clean, and the smell of freshly cut grass and hay wafts in through the open window. Taking the time to relax for a moment, he doesn’t notice when someone creeps along the side of the car, but he hears when they tap on the partially lowered window. Ven only has a moment to wonder if Vanitas forgot his wallet before he turns and realizes the man is a stranger.

“Hullo!” the man greets pleasantly. His eyepatch and black hair streaked with gray — and the way one arm is bent into the pocket of his black trenchcoat, as if cradling a weapon — aren’t what immediately alarm Ven. It’s his eyes: yellow, gaping, and endless in their mystery.

Ven gulps.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” The man begins to wiggle his fingers into the open space of the window mockingly, and Ven rolls it up as fast as he can, nearly catching the intruder’s fingers with the glass. His next words are partially muffled by the glass, but Ven can hear him laughing. “Oh, come on! I just want to talk, _Ventus_.”

Something tells Ven this guy has to be some sort of cop. How else could he know his name? But those eyes… He’d better wait for Vanitas. Ven glares out at the man as formidably as he can muster, scrunching his eyebrows down, which makes his head ache.

“Really, Ventus? You know Vanitas can’t protect you all the time, right? He can’t even protect himself.” Another maddening tap upon the glass. “ _Ventus_. Don’t you wanna know the truth about that sly, yellow-eyed devil of yours?”

Ven’s sweating. He can feel it pool in his armpits and drip down his neck. Opening the window just a crack, he hisses, “ _Go away_!”

“See, Ventus, now we’re getting somewhere. Me, Xigbar, and you…” Ven has to look away as the man studies his face through the window. A chill runs through him as he feels the eyes cast downward, as much as they can through the glass. “You’re totally oblivious, aren’t you? You’re not getting the bigger picture here, I’m guessing. That’s okay. I don’t blame you. Here, I’ll explain it to you. You ready?” The man leans closer, and Ven helplessly mimics his motion. “You—are—totally— _fucked_.” His fist slams the roof of the car, making Ven jump. Eyes watering, Ven cups his hands over his ears and bends down, willing the nausea and cruel man away. Nothing can hide the shrill laughter, however, now his final words to Ven.

“You look just like him, y’know? I bet you scream like him, too.”

The next thing Ven is aware of — whether it’s moments or minutes later — is Vanitas yelling outside. He catches bits of it, like how Vanitas keeps shouting “godammit” every other word, and Xigbar saying, too casually, “relax, Mr. Cassus,” then finally — full of sarcasm — “ _take care of our little Ventus_.”

When they speed off, Vanitas has one hand on the wheel and the other on Ven’s back. It occurs to Ven that Vanitas is probably just worried about him blowing chunks all over the nice interior, but it’s comforting, nonetheless.

After Ven sits up, he sucks in a breath. Vanitas asks if he’s okay.

“Who was that guy?” For once, Ven’s easily angered lover doesn’t lash out at him for answering a question with a question. Even Vanitas can accept there being more important issues, seeing as how Ven _appears_  to be unscathed. Somehow Vanitas knew the man wouldn’t hurt him — or maybe he just believed in it; had to — which raises the possibility of Vanitas being familiar with him. The man even knew his last name. If nothing else, the partial conversation Ven heard would have been enough to give it away.

“One of my father’s goons,” Vanitas mutters, clenching the steering wheel. “My father has eyes everywhere, but I didn’t think they’d have gotten out this far already. I guess we really are fucked, huh?”

Ven shudders at the memory of the man’s words back at the gas station. “How did he know we’d be _here_ , though? We’re in the middle of _nowhere_.”

“Maybe I’ve gone about this the wrong way. We stick out in the country, right? So maybe we’d be better off in places with more people.” The proposition is genuine, but the words ring hollow, as if Vanitas doesn’t even have faith in them himself. Like he never believed in any of this at all.

 _But why here?_ Ven wants to ask. Could it be possible Xehanort had so many loyal to him that they had all set out on different major roads loading out of town? How could they have organized this fast? Xigbar must have called the others and informed them of his discovery, and yet…

“Vanitas? Why didn’t he... _do_  anything? I’m pretty sure he had a gun.”

“Xigbar always carries a gun,” Vanitas affirms. As the dull, gray sky before them grows ever darker, promising rain, Ven gawks at his beloved.

“He could have killed me.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I would have killed him. I would have made sure his death was long and _excruciating_.”

Ven chews over the thought, not satisfied in the slightest. “But what does he _want_?”

The rain begins to fall, immersing the truck in sheets of water, attempting to keep it at bay. There are even cracks of thunder out in the distance, and, despite the rain having started after their conversation ended in utter silence, maybe Vanitas is telling himself he never heard Ven’s question at all.


	11. fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Vanven Day! Some bad news is that I really don't have the time to post as often as I used to, because of school. My schedule is fluctuating a lot, but at the moment, I have this story in particular planned for a chapter every three months.
> 
> This chapter ended up too long so I had to split it.

The car is still moving when Ven wakes up. The sky outside is dark, and Ven watches the passing shapes outside as he sits up. He sees old barns, the trees that dot their properties, and the fences bordering them. Traveling at night has always perturbed him, and after stretching his back, he sinks down into the seat so he won’t have to look outside.

Vanitas’ stomach grumbles and Ven smiles, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder knowingly. They haven’t eaten since this morning at the inn. They decide to stop at the next restaurant or convenience store they see. Less than half a mile later, that turns out to be a small diner. They pull up into the parking lot and Ven hops out excitedly before Vanitas can even pull the keys out of the ignition. The air is still a bit muggy from the early afternoon’s heat, but there’s a cool breeze blowing through Ven’s hair. Even Vanitas notices; he comes up from behind Ven to tousle his hair.

There are still lights on in the diner, and the “twenty-four-seven” sign blinks on and off at their arrival. The sole employee behind the counter is a tired-looking blond man with a mullet. At first, Ven thought he was just resting, with his elbow on the counter to prop his head up, but when Vanitas all but lets the door crash closed behind them, the man jumps.

Ven is turning to make sure Vanitas is okay, when he’s met with those eyes again — yellow, gleaming, and hateful. Before Ven can utter a single syllable of his name, the man behind the counter has sprinted to their side.

“Hey,” he greets in a high-pitched, nearly giddy voice — not one Ven would have expected from someone who’s just woken up. “I’m Demyx! You can sit over here, and I’ll get your menus in a sec.” He stretches out an arm to lead them to a booth. Vanitas begrudgingly sits down at the proffered seating, chin tucked into the neck of his shirt, and turns away. Once the waiter leaves them alone, Ven has a chance to ask Vanitas what’s troubling him. The waiter returns with plastic menus and a pitcher of water before Ven can receive any reply outside of a glare.

“I can take your orders whenever you’re ready!” the waiter — Demyx — chirps while pouring them each a glass of water, then trots off, disappearing behind a door marked “Staff Only.” Ven is reaching for his glass when Vanitas grabs his hand, startling him.

“What is it?” Ven asks quizzically. Vanitas presses a finger to his lips — then Ven hears the voice. It’s muffled, and coming from behind the door the waiter had went into. Ven turns in his seat to be able to hear it more clearly. There’s only a single voice, from what Ven can tell. It doesn’t bother him, not like it’s obviously bothering Vanitas. For all they know, the waiter could talk to himself while he works. Maybe he sings. Ven is confident in this theory after the waiter returns and, on his way back to their table, he stops to turn on the old jukebox in the far corner.

Vanitas isn’t appeased. He’s still gripping the edge of the table when Ven sets his menu down, and Demyx saunters over a few moments later. Ven orders a vegetarian burger with a glass of chocolate milk, while Vanitas’ order follows nonchalantly: a root beer and a ham-and-cheese sandwich — neither too filling or expensive. Ven is contemplating whether or not he could order dessert before Vanitas can interrupt him, but the waiter is already relieving them of their menus.

They don't hear the voice again until they’ve received their food and have begun chomping away. Vanitas is taking careful, calculated bites of his sandwich, his mind far from his tastebuds. Ven looks at him incredulously — there’s a slice of cheese about to fall out of his sandwich, and he’s tempted to snap it up, but then he hears the voice behind the door speaking once again. Maybe Ven should be more wary, like Vanitas. Maybe the food is drugged, and maybe there are a group of Xehanort’s lackeys hiding behind the staff door, preparing for an ambush. Perhaps more are on their way now. Soon, they’ll be surrounded and will have to tactfully fight their way out, like in the action movies Ven watched with his family growing up.

But Ven hadn’t been raised in the sort of environment that Vanitas had — constantly afraid and in pain, being treated like an insignificant insect by the one person he called family. Ven has barely been in this new world for twenty-four hours now, so when he hears someone speaking in the distance, it is simply that. Vanitas, however, hears an entirely different sound. He drops his sandwich back onto the plate and stands, making his way over to the door marked for privacy. Ven swears that as he’s walking, almost lumbering along in his pursuit, his steps make no sound. Ven’s amusement wears off once he realizes what Vanitas actually intends to do.

Vanitas’ arm is reaching to push open the door. Ven can’t call out to him — he doesn’t want his lover to end up in trouble for some sort of trespassing. Neither can he sit and wait, however.

Before the door is opened, Ven is standing beside him, as always. He feels an absolution bubble within him: supporting Vanitas in all his needs is his foremost desire.

In the end, ultimately it is Ven who does not hesitate and pushes opens the door. He doesn’t turn to see Vanitas’ incredulous face — although he can feel it burning into his side — and presses on.

There’s a small walkway to the left that leads to the bathrooms, but in front of them — where the voice is emanating from — is a doorless room. Containing a desk, computer, and filing cabinet, it appears to be an office of some sort. Demyx is within, holding a cell phone to his ear, but has halted his conversation. Ven pauses to look up at the frame of the door and is about to pull on Vanitas’ arm, but Vanitas is already barrelling ahead. Before Ven can speak, Vanitas has his forearm pulled back against the waiter’s throat, who immediately drops the phone. It clatters across the floor as its battery falls out.

The initial scene had looked entirely innocent to Ven, but he’s not about to question Vanitas’ methods. Even as Vanitas tightens his hold and the man chokes and sputters in his grasp, Ven looks on. It’s like watching a movie, and it’s not really happening, but the tightness in his chest is something he cannot deny is smothering him.

“Okay, okay!” Demyx chokes. “You got me! Ha…”

“You’re not very loyal, are you?” remarks Vanitas, who loosens his grip.

Ven steps into the room to retrieve the pieces of the fallen phone as Demyx continues.

“No, I’m really not. But you can let go. Like, really.” His eyes shift to meet Ven’s. “I won’t run. Your dad would kill me if I did, y’know.”

“My father is dead,” Vanitas says quietly. “I killed him.”

Demyx’s entire body slackens in relief against Vanitas. “You serious? That’s...great. That’s some great news. But why hasn’t anyone told me?”

Vanitas scowls. “I’m telling you now.”

While Ven puts the phone back together, and in-between Vanitas’ growled threats, Demyx tells them how Xehanort paid him to watch out for them; Vanitas, in particular. Demyx had been one of Xehanort’s many spies within his web of deceit. Xigbar had been the one to assign him to this particular diner, and he’s been here for a week.

“But if Xehanort is dead, then this is over,” Demyx reasons. “It’s all over. How’d you do it?”

“A shovel,” Vanitas replies sharply, clearly annoyed by this point.

“A shovel! That’s great. And where are you guys headed to now?”

“ _Away_.” Ven can almost hear a continuation of Vanitas’ voice in his head: _Away from here. From this. From you._

Finally able to slip free of Vanitas’ hold, Demyx slinks back against the desk, nearly toppling the chair. Raising his hands in defense, he says, “Okay, okay. But in good faith, spirit, whatever — lemme make you something for the road.” Again, he glances over at Ven. “It’s the least I can do, and you probably have a long way to go.”


End file.
